


Slamfire

by SuddenlySullen



Category: DCU
Genre: Crying, Fisting, Gun Kink, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Overstimulation, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuddenlySullen/pseuds/SuddenlySullen
Summary: "He dumps Nightwing face down on the bare mattress in the corner of the living room and tosses his gun down next to him so that he can take off his boots. After, he peels back the layers of Nightwing's obnoxiously tight ensemble and leaves his skin completely bare. He looks soft and breakable, covered in bruises in various stages of healing. It makes Slade really want to try and break him."
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97





	Slamfire

Slade almost turns around when he hears the familiar clanging of a late-night Gotham brawl. Almost, until he hears a familiar voice yelping in pain. Rolling his eye, he rounds the corner to find Nightwing has just taken a bad hit while in a fight with several miscellaneous thugs. He fires off a few rounds, low on patience. Three of the thugs drop to the ground immediately. The rest scatter when they realize that Nightwing has backup. After they've scattered, Slade realizes that Nightwing isn't moving from where he fell to the ground. Police sirens are closing in, presumably because someone has reported the gunshots. Unsure about Nightwing's current relationship with Gotham PD, Slade picks him up and carries him a few blocks to one of his closest safe houses. 

He dumps Nightwing face down on the bare mattress in the corner of the living room and tosses his gun down next to him so that he can take off his boots. After, he peels back the layers of Nightwing's obnoxiously tight ensemble and leaves his skin completely bare. He looks soft and breakable, covered in bruises in various stages of healing. It makes Slade really want to try and break him. 

His hands cover almost the entirety of Nightwing's thighs when he shoves his legs apart. There are two stained pillows on the floor that Slade uses to prop Nightwing's hips up. He palms Nightwing's ass cheeks apart so that he can spit directly onto his hole before shoving two fingers inside of him. The muscles offer no resistance, as loose and limp as the rest of Nightwing's body. Slade scissors his fingers, using his other hand to pat at his own pockets until he finds his cigarette pack. He holds the pack up to his mouth, plucking one from it with his teeth. He lights it and takes a long drag before adding a third finger to Nightwing's rapidly loosening hole. 

Twisting his fingers a bit, Slade tugs at Nightwing's rim and pulls the cigarette from his lips between drags so that he can spit directly into him. It isn't a replacement for lube and isn't nearly enough, but he forces his fourth finger into Nightwing anyway and he's not awake to protest so what's the harm, really? 

Slade spreads his fingers, working the muscles open as much as he can. His wrist twists to drive in just that much further. He presses his thumb against the hairless stretch of skin behind Nightwing's balls. It lets him feel his own fingers moving through the thin layers of flesh. When the drag of four fingers gets just easy enough, he folds his hand in to get just that last stretch of the knuckles of his thumb past Nightwing's entrance before his hand is buried inside to the wrist. He twists again and pulls it just far enough that the widest part of his hand is held in the tight muscles of Nightwing's hole. There are pink streaks of blood where it's torn, but he ignores them, spitting into his toy again. He puts the cigarette out on the carpet so that his fingers can press and rub around the taut muscles. 

When he checks to make sure the carpet isn't on fire, he catches sight of his gun lying forgotten on the mattress. The gun is smaller than his fist, but harder and less forgiving. Slade has to keep three fingers pulling at Nightwing's rim, holding him open so that the barrel slides right in. The cold seems to startle Nightwing enough that he regains at least some awareness. Enough, at least, that his muscles try to tighten and force out the cold, unfamiliar metal. Slade flicks his balls to get his attention, making Nightwing yelp and tense even more. 

"Just relax, little bird," Slade tells him. 

Nightwing doesn't relax. If anything, he struggles more. It isn't enough to force the gun out of him, not with Slade's strength holding it in place, but he does manage to knock Slade's arm enough that his finger brushes the trigger. Slade brings his free hand down on the back of Nightwing's neck, holding him firmly in place. 

"Now Bluebird, you know I don't mind a little struggling, hell it might even help me get off faster, but if you keep kicking like that we might have a little accident on our hands. Now, I'm  _ pretty sure _ there isn't one in the chamber, but if we're being real honest I don't quite remember. So I suggest you hold  _ real _ fucking still. You feel me?" 

Slade relaxes his hold on the back of Nightwing's neck and then, when there isn't any more struggling, removes it entirely. He uses the free hand to unbuckle his own belt and pull out his own neglected cock. His strokes are slow while his focus is more on sliding the rest of the barrel of his gun that last inch inside of Nightwing. Nightwing's sharp noises are a welcome change from the distant sounds of cars passing. For his part, he does seem to be doing his best to relax and let what's going to happen happen. Slade flicks his balls again just to watch him tense and gasp. 

He grasps his own cock again and strokes himself faster, keeping the gun fully seated inside Nightwing's hole. He can see the way the muscles are fluttering, instinct trying to push against the strange object and Nightwing's own willpower forcing them to relax again. Nightwing's nails scratch at the mattress, looking for something to grip at that isn't there.

When Slade comes, he lets it paint hot stripes down the backs of Nightwing's balls and his thighs. He trembles like he wants to squeeze his legs together and his face flushes bright red with shame, but he stays still. 

Once Slade has caught his breath, he tucks himself back into his pants. He brings his hand down to palm roughly at Nightwing's balls and over his soft cock. 

"Aw, don't be like that, baby," Slade purrs.

He thumbs the head of Nightwing's cock, coaxing it to half hardness so that his hand can wrap around the length. Nightwing shivers under his touch, but tries his hardest to hide the breathy moans and whimpers coming out of his mouth. He doesn't succeed, but he tries and let it never be said that Slade doesn't appreciate an honest effort. His hand works over Nightwing's cock in quick, rough motions. It makes Nightwing's breath hitch high in his throat and come out in choked gasps buried into the mattress. 

"That's it, Birdie," Slade says in a low voice. 

Slade tilts the gun to one side, half searching for Nightwing's prostate and half to remind him of what it is he's clenching around. He knows he's found it when Nightwing practically screams into the mattress. After that, Slade keeps the gun constantly nudging at it while he tugs at his cock. Nightwing's nails scratch loudly where they're digging into the mattress. When he does come, his moans almost sound relieved and Slade just can't abide by that. 

He strokes Nightwing through his orgasm, until his cock is just starting to lose a bit of its stiffness. Instead of stopping, Slade rubs his palm roughly over the head of Nightwing's cock, pinning it between his hand and Nightwing's own stomach until Nightwing really is screaming and there are tears streaming down his cheeks. He finally stops when Nightwing's cock spurts again, just the smallest dribble of come leaking into the mattress.

"There, that's better," he says, pulling his hand away. 

When he slides the gun out of Nightwing's hole, it stays loose and open for him. He can see the streaks of blood inside where the metal tore him open. The sight is almost enough to have Slade palming his own cock again, if only he could silence the nagging concern that he might have actually damaged his favorite toy. 

"You alright, Bluebird?" Slade asks, pushing Nightwing's hair out of his face so he can see his eyes. 

Nightwing looks up and his eyes are still wet, but he nods. 

"Should get the fuck out of here." Slade pats Nightwing's thigh. "Can you move?" 

This time he pauses before shaking his head and Slade can see when he thinks about lying. 

"Alright," Slade pulls out a other cigarette while he stands up. "Wait here." 

There's the usual single outfit hidden in a drawer in the back bedroom. He calls for a car to be dropped off at the curb while he's looking. The hoodie and sweatpants are in Slade's size, but they'll work. He finds Nightwing exactly where he left him, though he's managed to collapse onto his side. The clothes go on easily, though Nightwing drowns in them. He doesn't seem to mind, curling into the hoodie like a security blanket. 

Slade scoops him up, easier than when he was unconscious, and carries him down to the car that's been left running on the curb for them. They're quiet on the drive out of town to Wayne Manor. Nightwing watches Slade's hands on the steering wheel. Slade stops the car outside the gates, though he doesn't particularly want to. 

"Thanks," Nightwing finally says. 

"Not sure you should be thanking me," Slade tells him. 

Nightwing shrugs. "It's all about perspective."

"Well how about you just call me the next time you need a little perspective, huh?" Slade pulls a business card out of his pocket and flicks it at Nightwing. 

Nightwing smiles and it's tired, but unguarded. "Maybe I'll do that." 


End file.
